


Safe Place

by MindfulWrath



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Child Abuse, Other, Pedophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 19:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3540887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MindfulWrath/pseuds/MindfulWrath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief history of Purple Guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe Place

**Author's Note:**

> This is without doubt the single most fucked-up thing I've ever written. I do not condone pedophilia in any way, shape, or form. I wrote this because a decades-long murder-quest doesn't seem like the kind of thing that happens just because a creepy guy killed you. It seems like the product of a much deeper, angrier, uglier wound. It's when a man who didn't deserve a quick death gets one. It's when fear and fury intersect and persist.
> 
> It's when someone gets away with hurting a child.

I've always loved children.

I was the youngest of three boys—and lord, if that's not a reason to hate grown-ups, I can't think of one—and mostly my brothers took care of me. See, the way it would work is: Dad would take care of Ben, and Ben would take care of Luke, and Luke and Ben both would take care of me. If things got  _ really _ hairy, Mama would step in, but usually we didn't let it get that far, or if we did we didn't let her see it. Dad liked to yell. Mama didn't. Mama just  _ hit. _ But lord, if we didn't worship every word that woman said like gospel.

I hated her.

I think Ben and Luke hated me, too. I think Mama didn't hit them as much until I came along. I was an accident.  _ Unplanned, but not unwanted, _ that's what Dad used to tell me.

Dad was a liar, and I hated him, too.

So Ben and Luke, they liked to make themselves feel bigger by making me feel small, and  _ boy _ did they ever make me feel small. I never even tried to run away, because they said if I did, they'd hunt me down and shoot me with Dad's shotgun, and Mama would probably buy them both an entire toystore when they did.

I hated Ben and Luke most of all.

So I guess you can understand why, when I found out there were kids younger than me, I decided I liked them best. They didn't try to push me around. They didn't beat me up. They didn't threaten me. They  _ liked _ me. They  _ respected _ me. Heck, by the time I was in third grade, I had a  _ parade _ of kids following me around. It was great. I was finally  _ important. _ I was finally worth something.

Things got worse, somewhere along the way. The problem with kids is, they grow up. You get to middle school before them, and by the time they catch up, they've forgotten all about you. I went back to being nobody. Middle school was awful. I guess it probably is for everybody, but especially for me. I had to go to school with Luke. At least Ben wasn't there.

But eventually I got sick of it, y'know? I started missing the days when I could have a parade of other kids following me around. I wasn't really a kid anymore—or at least I didn't think so, you know how teenagers are—but I figured, hey, last time I was only a couple of years older than them, and they loved me! So since I was, like,  _ five _ years older, heck, I'd basically be President!

Ninth grade, I think, was when I started hanging out at the playground. Ben  _ and _ Luke both went to my high school, and I  _ had _ to get away. Had to find people who liked me for who I was, who weren't going to be awful to me just to fit in. Kids are good about that kind of stuff. They haven't learned to be awful people yet. They're sweet, you know?

I was kind of nervous about it at first—they always tell you stories about the creepy guy who hangs out at playgrounds and spies on the kids, even though it wasn't like that with me—but when I met Deanna, I think I remembered how to trust people again.

She was a sweet kid, Deanna. Gorgeous kid. Eyes like amber, and her mom did her hair up in pretty braids most every day. Once she got a bee stuck in her hair and she just shook her head and beat it to death. That kid had more spunk than everyone in my high school combined. Bigger heart, too. She was six, I think, when I met her—six is a great age, it's when the kids really get creative and energetic, they don't cry too much and they haven't been taught how to be jerks yet.

Deanna was the one who asked me if I wanted to play. She had on these pink cowboy boots, and a pink tutu—it was really cute, you know how six-year-olds like to dress, and it looked especially good on her because black girls don't get to wear that stuff much, you know? It's a culture thing. But she just walked right up to me and said, "Hey Mister, you wanna play too?" And of course I did, who doesn't love playing with kids? I got to be Godzilla and get taken down by an army of squealing little delights. Lord, I love kids. Those kids, especially. I think they were the first real friends I ever had.

Eventually they got too old, though, and they stopped having fun, and they stopped wanting to talk to me at all, because I was that much older than them. Even Deanna, eventually. I gave her my number and said she could call me if she ever needed anything, or if she just wanted to talk, or maybe get ice cream sometime. She said 'thank you' and I never heard from her again. Broke my heart, a little bit.

I don't think I was normal, really, growing up. The second I hit 18 I left home for good, just packed up and left. I stole Ben's car, but I stole Dad's shotgun, too, so Ben didn't come looking. He knew I wasn't coming back, and he knew that car was mine. It was a crummy car, too, falling apart and made of more rust than anything, but it had wheels and an engine and it could hit sixty on a good day, and it mostly felt like freedom. I think most people don't do that, leave home without saying anything, but what can I say, I wanted out, and I got it. I think they wanted me gone, too. They never came looking, not even for the shotgun.

The problem with running away is, you kind of end up homeless. It took me a while to find a job, and by the time I did, I'd been living in that car for so long it had started to smell like a landfill. I wouldn't have minded that so much, except whenever I tried to meet kids to hang out with, they all called me a stinky bum and ran away. Guess there are some things kids get taught really early.

But anyway, I got a job at this diner—cool place, threw a lot of birthday parties—that had some really neat people who got to dress up in these mascot suits, and some robot things, too. I wanted to be one of them, but there was a lot of training to do, and I was mostly on dish-washing duty for the first couple years. I didn't mind, really. It was nice being around the kids all the time. I even managed to save up enough to get an apartment nearby, with a shower and everything! They promoted me to counter, after that. Probably because I didn't smell so bad anymore, but I didn't really care why. It meant I got to watch the kids playing. I would've liked to play with them, but that was against company rules, and besides, the playground equipment probably would've broken if I'd tried to play on it. Fast food will do that to you, y'know?

I've worked at this diner for—lord, close on thirty years. I never did get promoted past about counter duty, but I'm okay with that. It was steady work, it paid the bills, and the kids were really sweet. Sure, they came and went, some of the ones I got to know got older and moved on—but that's what kids do, right? They grow up. There were always more kids to replace them, though. I think I have the best job on earth, honestly. I can't think of anything better than being surrounded by the laughter of kids eight hours a day.

Some of those kids were like me. I could see it on them. I could see the way they got bullied. I could see the way they hated everyone around them. Those were the kids I made special friends with. I didn't have much off-time, but I found a couple chances to take the kids aside and talk to them—there was a back room where pieces of the suits were stored, and we weren't  _ technically _ supposed to go in there, but I figured it was for a good cause, and besides it meant nobody would walk in on me and the kids.

I made sure those kids knew they were loved. I made sure they knew that I was just like them, once—that really, I still was. There are some kinds of happiness you can't get from toys and TV, you know? Sometimes you have to have someone to love you. And I loved those kids. I adored them. Sometimes they cried, but heck, I cried when I was a kid—I was glad when I  _ could _ cry, especially when someone was there to wipe my face and tell me it was going to be okay. It wasn't so bad for the girls, I think—girls get to cry, you know, but boys don't—but I could tell they needed it just as much as the boys did. Could tell they wanted someone to love them. And I made sure to keep them safe—I made them promise not to tell anyone what we did in the back room. I didn't want their parents to get mad like Mama used to get mad. Sometimes they didn't like that, but they usually promised anyway. They knew I was doing it for their own good.

Things were good. Things were honestly great. I'd never been happier, really. I felt good, I felt like I was  _ doing _ good—but oh, lord, as the years went on I just saw more and more of these poor kids come in, more and more kids who needed me to love them, and I just felt so bad for them all. I felt bad that I had to send them back home afterwards, back to whatever world had made them so sad and so unloved. Sometimes they never got to come back—a lot of times, actually, they never got to come back. Their parents could probably tell that they were happier afterwards, and of course they didn't want that. Anybody who makes a kid feel that sad and alone never wants the kid to stop feeling that way. It's messed up, but that's how it is.

I think Jesse was the saddest kid I've ever seen. He came in on his fifth birthday, and nobody came to his party. It hurt even to watch it, and I knew he was hurting, too. His parents didn't even care. I found a couple minutes to pull Jesse aside, and I made sure he knew I was there to help, I was there to support him. I told him I loved him, and that he was going to be okay. I asked if he'd come back, so we could talk more, because I knew what it was like, being alone and hurt like that.

He came back most every month after that. We got to be really good friends, me and Jesse. Sometimes I didn't get the chance to take him to the back room, but I think he understood that I still cared. He came for his sixth birthday, too—and this time,  _ four other kids _ came, too! It was fantastic, I was so happy for him. I wanted to meet all of his friends—I wanted to tell them how happy I was that I'd helped Jesse find them! I wanted to tell Jesse how proud I was. How happy I was for him.

Kids—I tell you, kids are curious! I do love them, you know. But they just will  _ not _ leave things alone! And sometimes that's hard. Frustrating, even. But I love them anyway.

I really wish the other kids hadn't followed Jesse back to the back room. People aren't supposed to come into the back room—that's why I go there, why I take my kids there. They started crying when they came in—lord, did they ever cry. It was hard to listen to. I don't like it when kids cry, it's upsetting. I'd much rather they be happy.

But they were making a lot of noise—so I had to shut the door. Had to lock it. Just so I could explain. They thought I was hurting Jesse— _ hurting  _ him, isn't that ridiculous? I wanted to explain, but they wouldn't listen. They were making so  _ much _ noise, and I didn't want the grown-ups to come in, because they  _ definitely _ wouldn't understand, not even a little bit.

Sometimes you forget, y'know, that kids are fragile? They seem really strong, like they can fall about two stories and get up with hardly a scratch, and you sort of forget that some parts of them break sometimes.

What I'm saying is, I didn't  _ mean _ to kill Becca. I didn't. She was yelling and she wouldn't stop, wouldn't let me explain anything. I wasn't trying to hurt her. I just wanted her to be quiet and stop calling me  _ names. _ She had a lot of names for me. What a little firecracker she was!

I don't like hitting kids. Never did. I didn't want to be my mom. But I knew that what she did worked, and I needed something to work, because they weren't listening. I hit Becca. I didn't want to, but I didn't have a choice. She hit her head on the shelf, after I hit her, and then she stopped moving. I'm not sure the other kids knew she was dead—even I wasn't sure—but one of them screamed. Kids scream so  _ loud, _ you know? You can hear it three counties away. There was a lot of screaming. I hit a lot of kids. Not Jesse, no, never Jesse—I do love him, I could never hurt him—and kids, you know, kids are just so  _ fragile. _ And I really did need them to listen, and they wouldn't listen, so I had to keep hitting them, and next thing you know, four dead kids on the floor, and me standing there with blood all over my knuckles, and Jesse—poor Jesse—running out the door!

You can't just tell grown-ups "it was an accident" and get away with stuff. Especially when someone's dead—I know that. I don't spend much time with grown-ups, but I know  _ that. _ I had to go get Jesse, before he told someone the wrong truth and I got in trouble—but lord, there was a lot of blood on me, and if someone had heard the screaming, they'd be sure to look in the back room!

I stashed the kids inside some of the old animatronics lying around back there—they didn't fit perfectly, I mean, there was some crunching and some squishing, but I got them all hid pretty quickly. There's more blood on me now—I can't go out there looking like this, I'll scare the kids! But I do have to go get Jesse before he tells somebody.

There's an old character suit in the corner—that gold bunny one. I forget why they put it back here. It should hide the blood. I'll go get Jesse, and I'll explain, and everything will be fine. He'll understand, once I explain. He'll forgive me. Kids forgive, you know?

Lord, I do love kids.

 


End file.
